Origin of the Storm
by SurrenderTheSociopaths
Summary: Natasha Romanoff's past holds secrets that run far deeper than anyone knows... Now, years after joining S.H.I.E.L.D., her mind is starting to unearth the truths behind her nightmares.
1. Chapter 1 - The First Kill

_**(Yes I know, another Black Widow orientated fic, what a wild deviation from my usual theme :p)**_

 _ **Okay, so this story is based on the majority of MCU cannon, but is warping a few fairly major parts in a way that'll seem to be more in accordance with some of the comics. Anyway, please don't assume the storyline is going to follow either of the universes perfectly - it's a bit of the mix of the two, with the prevailing story arcs being taken from the movies.**_

 _ **Thanks!**_

* * *

Existence isn't a result of life. It's simply what remains in the absence of death.

I think I'm dying.

* * *

My hands are tinted blue and I last recall feeling my legs over half an hour ago. This is a problem, because without feeling where I am stepping, I am running on memory alone. And considering there's only so many rocks I can lay placement to in my mind, and I'm struggling to remember where the remainder of them are located, I am doomed to trip and fall over, again and again, until I can summon the memory of the floor and make more ground from the clearing.

My dress is dirtied...

My knees are scratched and bruised...

The cloth secured around my eyes has been tied the tightest it has been so far.

I don't enjoy this game.

"Stop running!" bellows a breathless voice from not far behind me. It is a voice that has been following me for about half a kilometre.

The command, as the ones before it have been, is in Russian, so I know it is not one of the elders. The elders stopped speaking to us in the mother tongue a few weeks ago - they're teaching us a new language called 'American', which is a form of English. In the future we will learn many more languages, of all the countries we might ever cross on any missions we are sent on. American is just the start.

"Little girl, stop!"

The voice itself doesn't scare me, but the realisation that my pursuer has gained so much ground on me does. My mind falters as I try to remember which way is clear for me to go, and soon enough I miss another rock, and I'm on the floor once again. My hands are so cold, I feel genuine surprise when they make the movements I want them to. Feeling the ground, my fingers push into the snow again to allow me to stand up. But before my feet have a chance test the ground, mysterious hands hook under my armpits and pull me to my feet.

I think of screaming, but decide against it. If I scream, I'll lose the game.

Instead, I stand there, deadly quiet. Or this is my aim; my breaths are not only audible but short, rapid and pitiful, completely ruining any façade I'm trying to put on here. The man - I think it is a man - is trying to calm me but is struggling to cope with his emotions himself. Panicked, he moves behind me and cracks a few of the branches in the snow. A curse is whispered under his breath and his fingers start fumbling at the knot at the base of the cloth covering my eyes. He's unfastened the most of it and I can feel the material loosen around my head. But I can't allow this. He mustn't ruin the game.

"No!" I scream at him, so loud that he stumbles backwards. "Dima says we can't take off the blindfold!"

He asks me why but I just purse my lips. I know I have made a mistake by raising my voice.

The man's stubby fingers untie the rest of the knot and remove the cloth, reassuring me as he gently folds my hair back in place. Adjusting to the light again, my eyes struggle to register the man's appearance. While I am relieved that it is not anyone from the compound, I know a stranger is not always good news. For starters, this could easily be a trap. I've seen them trick the older girls like this, punishing them if they are too kind, or if they accept the kindness of those whom they do not know. And if it isn't a trap, then I'm afraid that the man's kindness with be far from rewarded...

"What is your name?" the man asks me, and for the first time, I see his face. It is sooty and surrounded with dark brown locks that I think constitute a beard, though it is difficult to tell because there doesn't seem to be any separation of it from the hair on his head, or even from the lower half of his neck. He is like an oddly shaven bear, and I have to suppress the urge to giggle.

Still, I do not answer the question.

"Why were you running?" the man asks this time. He's crouched on the floor so he can talk to me without having to look down. "Is Dimitri - Dima - chasing you? Where have you run from?"

"It's a game." I tell him, in Russian, not American English.

His eyes drink me in, concerned and confused but curious all the same, and I find myself lost in his expression. At the focus of my gaze, his face makes me lose sight of the rest of the world.

It's almost... peaceful.

And then, all of a sudden, the face swishes out of sight and is replaced by the butt of a gun. The bear man is nursing his head, groaning as the feeling of the snow against his roaring head sends shocks up his body.

A gasp escapes my lips. I notice that they were reluctant to pull apart, and I think I've torn away some of the skin at the corner of my mouth.

"Natalia." says a disappointed voice from by my side. My breathing has steadied automatically, my spine straightening now and my feet steadying on the ground. The voice's owner touches my shoulder.

"Have I lost the game?" I ask, this time in my best English.

The voice lets slip a sigh, and then its hand places something into mine. A feminine touch, someone I know well. She has to move my finger into position, because I don't know quite where the trigger is for this model, but when she releases her grip I make sure not to drop it, or slip my hand out of position. I know I shouldn't be holding the gun, but if I let go of it, things will be worse.

"Dima says not until the summertime." I protest.

"It is almost summer." the woman assures me. My pigtails are swinging slightly and I notice I am shuffling from foot to foot. I can't shoot this man. Maybe if I had a knife, something small like they teach us to play with at the compound, maybe then I could kill him. Or hurt him, at least. For all the sparring with the other girls and the training with the weapons, I don't have a real death to my name just yet. Stabbing him might just be feasible. But I can't shoot this man. I look down at the ground in what I hope comes across as shame. Madame Letova has to know that I am trying. That I am angry at what I cannot do. That's how you play the game - you run, and if you don't run fast enough, you lose. But you must not show that you are sad about performing badly. You must be angry at what you cannot do.

The woman raises my arm for me. She is looking at me expectantly, patient but forcefully so, as if she has to remember not to punish me for my non-compliance.

"Shoot the man lisichka." she says gently.

I'm still not looking up, and I think Letova knows that I'll miss horrendously if I actually try to shoot the bear man. I'm not so good with a gun yet. Sighing now, her hands make their way around my hand and prop it up; a finger slithers down to rest by mine on the trigger, and the last bone of it settles a little bit further on the body of the gun than mine.

"Don't look away." she says, though she's not checking to see whether my head has turned. I am watching all-right, encapsulated by the features of the surprised man in front of me. The fingers of the hand supported by Letova's pop into my line of sight, and I see they are bluer than I thought they were. My eyes settle back on the man. His eyes are pleading.

Madame Letova adjusts her aim slightly, then, together with me, pulls the trigger. Blood splatters onto my face and I can imagine it spread out on my cheeks, like a second set of freckles.

I am five years old.

I should know not to talk to strangers.

* * *

 ** _Second part next week!_**


	2. Chapter 2 - Come Summer

The people at S.H.I.E.L.D. like to think they know my history. The deal was, after all, tell them everything and then they would save me. The haunting of my past hurt; I said I would comply. Of course I would comply. It was only a question of storytelling, after all. But in truth, what S.H.I.E.L.D. needed was not my history - they needed a profile that would suit them for their own crimes. Just enough background information to satisfy their records - just dark enough a past to prove my willingness to join them. The information I gave them was scattered at first but eventually it rolled out. A birth date, a country. The name of an organisation, some of the notches on my belt. Parents. Schooling. They needed a normal story with a singular twist: a lone assassin for the KGB - brainwashed but now turned good. So that's what I gave them. And? Oh, but of course. There's always more.

That summertime that Dimitri had promised has come a lot later than expected.

The rise of some politician in the West has kept busy many of the compound's leaders, and eastern Russia's famine of a good few years prior has resurfaced to take the attention of their remainder. So now the ones not busying themselves about politics juggle the jobs of feeding us and giving us training; there's no time for games any more, so the blindfolds have been locked away, stuffed onto the top shelf of cupboards stocked with food rather than weapons. It seems, really, that they've forgotten about a lot of that kind of training. For a long time, I was the youngest - that much I remember of the years before - but now I am one of the older girls, and things are meant to be more difficult. The handcuffs get tighter, they said. The men look at you differently. But now I'm 9, and the metal ring around my wrist at night feels the same as ever, and the men, to tell the truth, barely look at me at all. Scrutiny of me tends to come directly from the mothers. They know if you didn't walk the way you were supposed to, or if you made someone help you tie your hair in the morning. These things are important and the women see them - the men don't. They are too focussed on what sort of fighting we take part in.

Dimitri watches me from very close by, so close I can hear his breathing. I'm sure he's doing this on purpose, and it's seriously impairing my focus. I'll have to learn not to pay attention to these things.

"The motherland needs you to protect it. You must promise to serve it. Do you promise?"

"I promise." I tell him. I have told him this for the last 6 years of my life, but only now am I starting to believe in what I am saying.

"And you must be loyal to we who take care of you. We who have rescued you."

"I promise." I repeat. The shooting bunker is large and strange when emptied of people and I am surprised that I haven't seen it like this before. It is also extremely cold, even now in the summer.

"You've grown since I last saw you." Dimitri tells me. My hair is still in the same pigtails as before but this time the braids fall way past my shoulders - I suppose I _have_ grown, but I haven't taken much notice of it. "When you're ready."

My hands fly up and almost launch the revolver I am holding across the room. Dima doesn't comment but I know I've done it wrong. Sliding back down to my side, my arms try to settle and I take a deep breath in. The arms raise again and this time I think I've done better. Nice and slowly, with plenty of time to breathe. I'll pay for my earlier mistake later. Right now I have to prove I can shoot.

Finger on trigger and grip secured, I remove the hand that the butt is resting on.

My target is a fair distance away from me.

I don't think I can hit it exactly where I want to, but I reckon I can get close.

Dimitri's breathing is audible, but I think I can block it out.

I've taken aim.

I've pulled the trigger.

 _Splat goes the bunny._

* * *

Tearing into the extra piece of bread I got, I pause for the indulgence I am safe to trade for with my victory. The other girls my age shot the rabbit too, but none of them on the first go. Those who missed too many times might struggle to get through tomorrow... The slap I got for my technique won't be much in comparison to the extra bouts of fighting they'll have to go through.

Slight clanging ripples across the room and bounces back to where the noise is being made, at the base of my bed where my feet swing and hit the metal. The bread is good and the noise is a distraction - they will be testing us soon and I don't want to think about how cold the water is. Yes it might be summer, but the water is never warm.

The bed creaks as another girl perches on the other side of it, the sound disturbing my melody. She turns to me and scowls a hello; her hair is mousy brown and falls just above her shoulders; her expression looks scattered, with anger taking prominence perhaps. Fresh blood is what she looks like to me, but if she's managed to get into the dorms without being forced to tie back her hair, she's better than most girls at clearing a situation. It's notoriously difficult to fight with hair in your face.

The girl checks to see if I am looking at her properly. The freedom we are given is, I think, not seen as freedom by _them_. The new girls do not understand what it's like to serve. They need to learn how to love the life they have been gifted.

I skim over her expression and notice her gaze casting down to the bread in my hands. My eyes register her hunger but my brain decides against offering her part of my bread. Kindness has very little value here. It's not worth anything in trade.

"Do you speak English?" I ask her, but she doesn't understand what I'm asking her.

"Parlez vous français?" I try, knowing that they alternate between which language they teach to the younger girls first. American English tends to take priority, but sometimes they endeavour to teach the girls French - not that I feel I've come very far with my conversation skills in it.

With no reply to go on, I assume that the girl really is fresh blood.

"You must be quick to learn the other tongues." I tell her in Russian, though the words coming from my lips sound less hostile than intended, more like a friendly warning. The girl shoots me a look that I think means she is considering me as an ally. Her eyes are a glassy blue with a slither of poison cloud snaking around their circumference. For some reason I can't quite pinpoint, I feel like they outdo the vivid green of mine.

There's the sound of the door opening and my gaze breaks to accommodate whoever has entered the room. Madame Letova folds her arms and announces that the test will start in one minute - she has aged the same amount of years but, unlike me, hasn't changed a bit, and I find myself knowing that she is timeless, a permanent observer in the corner of every room. Now she is telling us to get dressed for a swim in the lake.

I don't intend to return to the one sided conversation I was having with the new girl, instead I just get up and retrieve the clothes I need to get dressed.

I'm jealous. It's not a good emotion.

When I come back with the collared black dress, the girl is gone.

* * *

We're all lined up in front of the lake, which furls and unfurls constantly before us, the ducks and fish seized and released by the ripples of the water. My fingers are their usual pink colour, my knees healed, and for once I feel quite proud of how I am looking. The dresses are reserved for games outside, and since it's been so long since we've played, it is strange to think that they are usually accompanied with broken bones and bloody noses. They are work clothes that we wear to escape the trap of comfort and practicality - dresses that show us for our age not our capabilities. They are friends that we are forbidden to elope with, that we are beaten and scarred in, that signal fear and pain and don't give us thick enough skin to withstand the whipping. But that is what it is like in the greater world. And if scars are to be inflicted on anything, let it be on the façade. Letova tells us to aim for the practical but be happy with discomfort...

I take what she says to mean we should worship it.

Last week we watched another American English film all the way through, called 'Billy the Kid'. I read back the words in it perfect - my English is almost natural if the films are anything to go by, even if I'm still not great at forming the sentences on my own. I think the film is what reminded Dima to take us to the shooting hanger, and what probably prompted the leaders to call on another game. We've not been by the lake for months, not since it was frozen over before the spring.

One of the elders, a man with slick hair combed back and bereft of facial hair, looks us up and down and scowls.

"The motherland needs us to serve it." the man says, his voice monotonous.

We, a collective of 12 or so girls, repeat this with valour.

"We will serve the motherland." he says now, as unconvincing as before. "Russia is great. Russia is pure. We pledge to fight for Russia."

But even though the man drones without enthusiasm, it is important that _we_ believe in these words. And so the collective never groans, or mumbles, or falters. The words are true. We here are free from corruption, we have been saved from the greed of the West. And we must protect what has been gifted to us.

The man switches languages from Russian to English, which we don't tend to hear much of any-more outside of lessons. The language is still seen as important, but the priorities have shifted.

"Go onto boat and row to the middle." the man says, and it is clear he is not as well versed in English as the mother tongue. His confidence is low, and he stumbles over the words more than I do. To be honest, I don't think he likes us very much at all; we don't seem to be useful to him, just too clever for our own good. Or too clever for him, at least.

I pretend not to notice his struggles, and move onto the boat formation with the others. It bobs in the water and dips slightly at the points where the girls and I step; there's water seeping in through small cracks in the wood, filling around our shoes. I'm lucky not to be barefoot.

There are weights in the centre of the boat.

When we have rowed into the centre of the lake, we slip them around our waists, secured by a chain. To ensure none of our belts are too loose, each of us spend the next few minutes tightening the loop of another girl's chains on the vessel. Adding only discomfort, I think no-one wants to have a tighter chain of weights pressing into their hips. But while we all have reservations about making a person fail their test, we know that this is assessed like a game too; the losers will not be treated well and so we have no choice but to ensure it is not easy for our competitors. That is what it is in the real world. Everyone will try and tighten your belt, so you must tighten theirs too. Fair is fair.

We each take a step close to the rim of the boat and wait until the elders at the lakeside tell us to jump.

In English, they would call this test 'Endurance'. It is a test to see how long we can stay under the water for, and then a test of our judgement on when to free ourselves and swim back up. I have done this test before, and by the results of that one, I don't plan on winning. Not that it matters all too much - I don't need to be strongest in water, just as long as I am fit enough to survive the course - I'll cut my losses and bring my battles, I decide, onto the land. I just have to make sure I don't lose. I don't want to let my country down.

While we wait for the call, I let my eyes wander and settle on the new girl who stands at the other extreme of my side. She is silenced but not stunned, like she is focussed on the water she is staring at but is not looking at it in fear. I don't think that's right. She should be asking questions - will the water be cold? how deep do we swim? what happens if we can't swim back up? Still, she says nothing. Why is she not saying anything? She's not one of us. This is wrong, she doesn't understand what it takes to be here. Her hair is still flowing freely and its mousy brown somehow radiates in the sun. I would say I hope to fight her, but I fear that that might just make it worse.

Despite my comfort with me not coming first, I realise I don't want her to win.

She's not allowed to.

I tear my gaze away and look back to the elders in shame. My eyes have been slit open and are bleeding the ugly, poisonous green of jealousy, spoiling the _perfectly adequate_ colour my irises would be otherwise.

The countdown reaches its finale from the edge of the lake.

"Jump!"

* * *

 ** _Find out what happens at the lake next week!_**


	3. Chapter 3 - Eva

The dive is calm.

The sound of the others breaking the water's surface doesn't escape me, but neither is it particularly prominent, and as I approach the bottom of the lake, I'm happy to find it melting in with the background gurgling. The entire world, _my_ entire world, is lying 300 ft above me, and I can barely hear a thing. Best thing is, I think the jealousy soaked into my bones is slowly diffusing out. Or, at least, what might be leaking out of me is not glaringly obvious, like I think it was before.

I'm pretty sure no-one can see me this far down anyway.

Pushing the remainder of my emotions out, I clear my head to flood it with patience. The test needs time. I have to have control. That's what Letova tells us, at least. I'm not sure Dimitri thinks my control is that important.

My pigtails are being lifted by the slight undercurrent here and strands of hair swish in front of my face, curling into different shapes that invent their own stories and meanings. A dog floats past and then a house. A mother. A father. All things in the American movies. I just have to watch them. Let it play out, like a movie.

I let a little bit of air escape my lips and I sharpen my eyes to see the bubbles more clearly as they head upwards. It's only been a few minutes and there are many more to go.

I don't need to win, I remind myself. It's simply a question of not losing.

This could be easy.

This _is_ easy.

But... There's a crack in the water.

It's distant and I can't pin a location to it, but the sound it unmistakable. The lake squirms as another projectile pierces it, and this time I think I can see it, its edge catching in the sunlight. It's such an alien object here, and I have to press my lips together to stop myself gasping.

This doesn't feel like it's part of the test.

There's another crack and this time the bullet appears right in front of my face, so fast and close it seems like its trail just blinks into existence before me. This time I do gasp, and all of the air I've been holding in leaps out of my mouth and nose in fear. This isn't supposed to happen. They're not supposed to shoot at us. Holding the air in wasn't the key to holding my breath, but now that it has escaped, my lungs are ordering me to replenish it. I'm quashing the compulsion as much as I can, but at the sound of another thing slicing through the water, I fall back and let my mouth slip open.

I immediately regret it.

The sides of my throat become coated in a liquid that, whilst I know is water, burns like acid. Swimming away is made impossible by the weights around my waist - they've been tied too tight and have nestled into the lake bed.

Every breath I try to take is stolen by a rush of water.

It hurts. It hurts and I want it to stop! I don't like the pain! I can't hear the voices from above, can't pinpoint where the bullets are hitting the water - I can't even _see!_ I want to run, _really run_ , but I can't move for the water and the weights are too heavy to let me sprint. Everything I know is telling me to get up and run, but my legs won't move and my throat _burns_ , it's burning like it's corroding and yet it's also burning like it's on fire, and all the water around me is doing nothing to help put it out, and I can't _breathe._

Letova and Dimitri and Irina are telling me to breathe, but I can't.

I can see their faces through the water and they command me to breathe, but I know that another breath would just endanger me more. I've never fully felt my lungs but now the feeling of them swelling with fluid is so heavy that it is demanding every single inch of my attention.

I can't.

I just can't!

I can feel myself weakening, and I hate it! I've never thought that bullets could pierce me, because they never have - but maybe I'm wrong. The water splits for a moment where another shower of bullets rain down into the lake, and all I can feel is the inflation of my lungs, and the drumming of fear at the back of my skull.

I think they call this 'vulnerable'.

* * *

The lights haven't gone out but I think the firing has stopped.

A hand reaches out and grabs my wrist. It retracts when I try to snatch it back, even if my movement is embarrassingly weak. Instead it and its partner move down to my waist, where they make light work of the knot holding the weights there. Part of me wants to protest, because untying the belt is against the rules, but I decide just to let it happen. I think, at this point, I've just got to accept help.

The girl from before, hair swirling before her, slides the weights off and hooks her arm around my armpit at the elbow. She's pulling upwards and I'm trying to help her along, but while my limbs are moving I don't think any of the distance we have made has been helped by me at all. The surface seems further than I thought it was but I hold on to consciousness until we break the film of the water. I don't think I've ever been so happy to taste the summer air.

I black out.

When I come to, I find the mousy haired girl has dragged me onshore and hidden me behind some shrubbery. She's standing less than 2 metres away and yet it feels like maybe she's not there at all; I don't know if it's the water that gives her this new plane of existence, because she stood out incredibly to me before, but whatever it is I find it deeply unsettling. When I sit up, I cough heavily and water fires out of my mouth. It still burns my throat as it passes through.

"You've got to be quiet." the girl warns. She's perched behind a tree, hair falling from behind her ears onto her shoulders. "They don't know we're here."

I disregard her warning and continue trying to clear my lungs. I don't think she minds too much though, because there's an aura of adrenaline surrounding her which seems to be blocking out the noises I make. When I think I've coughed out what I can, I stagger up and shuffle behind the girl.

"What's your name?" I ask her. My eyes are trained on whatever is happening on the other side of the lake, though they're taking a while to focus enough to register exactly what's happening.

"Eva." she tells me absent-mindedly. Standing next to her, I can see she is a little taller than me - taller than I first noticed.

"Are you going to ask me mine?" I ask her after a minute or so has passed. She turns and blinks away what could have been a smile, tearing away from the scene before her easily.

"Will you tell me it?" she asks coolly, or at least tries to ask coolly, despite the newcomer vibe she displays.

"Yes."

"Okay then, what's your name?"

"Natalia."

Eva's eyes drift away in thought, then return, eager.

"Can I call you Natasha?" she asks.

"No." I give in curt and disgruntled reply.

"Okay." she responds, but she is less disappointed than I was hoping she would be. Her gaze has returned to what is going on and catches an argument between the man with the slick hair and Madame Letova, who seems to be wounded. There is a rifle on the floor in the middle of the pair, but I doubt that's what was firing into the water. No, there must be more gunmen along the banks...

Eva seems confused.

"Whose gun is it, do you think?" she asks.

"His." I say without hesitation. Madame Letova is notorious for her games; she would not purposely jeopardise this by doing something that other elders disagreed with.

"I'm tired." Eva sighs.

I don't bother to comment. She's new - she still sees the benefit in moaning.

"What's your favourite colour?" she asks me, all of a sudden. I'm not sure I can really take her seriously, but I'm compelled to answer. The scene across from our side of the lake is disinteresting anyway.

"I don't know."

I say this honestly, because I'm not sure I've ever had a favourite colour. That isn't so strange.

"My favourite colour is blue." Eva says, shuffling a little. "Baba makes me dresses in blue so I can play by the sea and no-one sees me."

"You lived near the sea?" I ask her, jealousy turning opaque again.

"I _live_ by the sea." she corrects me. "My home is by the sea."

"We haven't got any blue dresses..." I mumble. I kind of wish we did. Maybe it would give us some protection - maybe the other gunmen wouldn't see us, if we were blue like the sky and the lake. The argument at the shore has picked up again and Letova is fighting with the slick-haired man; they throw arguments and punches like marionettes, and it looks far too much like a show for us to take it seriously.

Eva has on her face the same concentration as she had staring into the water.

"We could run." she fantasises, dream-like excitement swirling in her eyes.

I look at her and notice again that I am looking up slightly. She is taller and I think it makes her look like one of the older girls.

"They'll find us." I say, dismissing the idea as ridiculous.

"How do you know?"

"Because they always do."

"I want to go home." Eva argues.

"The punishment is bad." I grumble, and return my focus to the scene at hand.

The fight has escalated and it seems I've missed the entrance of several others, who are battling Letova alongside the man. I think they look like ants. Madame Letova kicks at the knees of one assailant and swoops round to bring down two others. The man with the slick hair screams in anger and ducks to avoid a hit. He rolls back up and shifts his position while Letova is still moving round, and then there's this noise, and I recognise the sound of another gunshot, and I can see the point at which it has hit her, and -

Eva grabs my hand.

A small gasp escapes my lips; I can't decide whether it's the feeling of someone holding my hand, or the gut clenching feeling that has hit me at the sight of Madame Letova being shot.

The hand in mine tugs and Eva pulls me back a little. She tries to tow me with her as she starts running back, strengthening her grip on me by curling her fingers around my wrist. But I am fixated, stuck like I was years ago with the bear-man. Unmoving, my sight registers in my mind like the movies we are shown; Letova pulls the gun from the man's hands and in one movement kills him dead, spilling enough bullets around her to disable several of those converging on her. Rising from the amidst the corpses, she clamps a hand around the point at which her wound is at. She looks across the lake. With furrowed eyebrows, she smiles.

"Natasha." Eva says quietly, with what sounds more like a hiss than a whisper. She tugs at my hand again and this time I let her pull me with her.

"Natalia." I correct her under my breath, but I can't be sure if she heard me or not.

* * *

Now there's nothing weighing me down at my waist, there seems to be a significant clump of empty space there, and running seems to feel a lot stranger than it usually does. I think my head must have filled up with water from the lake too, because as we are running I feel it swirl and slosh inside there, rolling around in my thoughts and memories.

"Where are we going Eva?" I call, tottering along behind her as she navigates the forest. When she doesn't answer me, I shout: "Eva!"

"Home!" she shouts back, though the intensity of her words are lost somewhat in between all the rocks and trees. Water trails behind us, dripping from our soaked black dresses.

"You said you lived by the sea." I say, confused.

"I'm going home." she replies, but she comes across and angry, and stubborn. I have always been told not to try and remember what life was like before this, because this is better, but it must be different for her, because she is new. She remembers home, and she wants to go back. She's willing to run all the way to the ocean for it. Is she blind? Has she not been told that this is better? I don't know anymore. I'm not sure.

Approaching slowly, a road starts to make itself known to us. I know in my mind though, through the sloshed thoughts, that we are being followed, and I am under little illusion that the sea is by far an unobtainable goal.

"Natalia." exclaims a voice from not far behind, and I stop dead in my tracks to heed fully the words. Eva stumbles as I jerk her backwards, and she looks back at me with eyes aflame, as if I have betrayed her. But in my mind, I tell her that it is safer for us to stay. Madame Letova, whose blood is staining the skirt she is wearing, leans against a tree and casts a glance back towards the lake.

"Help your teacher, lisichka." she commands, stronger than expected. I go to her obediently, for I am hoping that she will forget about our running away, and take us back without punishment. It seems Eva is the one locked in position now, confused by the change of emotion in the air. The flame of her escape has suddenly been snuffed out, the residue alien and unsettling.

My jealousy dissipates.

As a car pulls up on the road ahead, my gaze catches hers, inviting her to join me. And somewhere in my head, I think I've made the promise that one day, I will find us an opportunity where it is safer to leave, and I will take her with me. She pulled me out of the lake. I owe her something for that.

The driver, an instructor we know as 'Irina', jumps out from the car ahead and helps Madame Letova and us in. Going back to the compound has never been tenser, but at least I can breathe.

I have a feeling that the summer is soon to be over.


	4. Chapter 4 - Family

This so far is sounding pretty standard, right? I mean, it might shock you to realise how young we were through all this, but apart from that, there's no super twist involved here. Sure, on face surface, it's horrible enough to float. No-one wants to think about a 9 year old drowning in a lake and a 5 year old shooting a Good Samaritan in the face. But it's safe to say, that's not what made me want to tell this story. No, it goes deeper. Or, rather, further. I'm 13, in a city I haven't been in for a long, long time, and I'm out on my own for the first time. Not too long ago, a bomb hit the city - it fell from the sky and shook the ground of all its dirty secrets - and now I've got to decide how I'm going to wade through them and the rest of this mess to get to my target. Skimming over the newspaper in my hands, I register the date.

The scenery of Russia doesn't do much to ascertain the time period of the situation, does it?

Oh, and the date?

1941\. 22nd June.

It's yesterday's paper.

Shading my eyes from the sun, I look up from the paper and scour the rubble ahead. People are climbing out from underneath it, popping up from the carcasses of buildings like ghosts.

"Help!" cries a mother trying to rescue her child. "Help me, please!"

I glance over and put the newspaper on a cafe table nearby. The headline "Victory will be ours!", an encouraging quote from the foreign minister's address yesterday, is placed face-down, so it can't be seen by passers by. Hitler's invasion is not only an unwanted surprise, but a worry for the people here. Judging by the state of the city around me, I doubt that we're particularly ready for it.

"Please help me." begs the woman, a line of red blood snaking its way down her face. I don't think I've ever seen her before - she certainly isn't connected to the mission at all - and it surprises me to see her calling out to strangers like she is. Still, I go over and start to lift pieces of concrete away from the child's legs, so that its mother can pull her out more effectively. There's no point harming civilians - it just detracts time from the task you're on. At least, that's what I'm quick to tell Eva. Really, I think I just avoid hurting members of the public because it makes me feel like I've done something right for a change. Save the people of Russia, destroy its enemies. It's a clear enough instruction.

A bit of debris falls from a leaning pillar and I scuttle out of it way before it hits my head.

"I know you." whispers the woman opposite, nursing her daughter.

I look at her blankly. I don't think I've seen her before in my life.

"Romanova." she says accusingly, but I can't think of a crime in which I am responsible for by name, especially not of my last.

"What do you mean?" I ask her, standing up. My hair, arranged in a plait across my forehead, is falling out of place, and I pull at the strands absent-mindedly until the structure collapses and my hair swishes behind me.

The woman doesn't answer but shakes her head. I can't discern the emotion she is carrying from the tone of her voice - I think, I think it is more like shock than anger, but her manner of speech screams at me to disregard what her face is saying and react to the rage. I've grown out of the concept that everything is a test set up by those in the compound, but I don't doubt they have people planted around the country for spying - perhaps this is simply someone who has heard of my passing through, someone who is or has suffered at the hands of one of the compound's operatives. Whatever the circumstance actually is, I'm in no mind to stick around.

As I turn, I hear the woman's voice again.

"I know you!" she shouts at my back. My feet scrape across the wreckage as I try to move faster, the distant wails of the trapped and injured swirling in the air. I'm not going to stop for them - I already saved one civilian. It's time to get back to the mission, I'd say.

Her calls don't seem to quieten and I suddenly and completely regret coming to her aid.

"I know you!" and this time it comes as a scream, one that pierces the air with the razor sharp voice of a disbelieving child.

I can't help but pivot on my heel. Her child chatters to a stray cat a hundred yards behind her, oblivious to the reactions of her mother. Now, realising she has caught my attention, the woman folds into herself a little. Then, teary-eyed, and in a way which I have to focus to catch the words as they leave her lips, she whispers:

"Your mother misses you."

I turn again and, quick as I can, rush away from the scene.

"I know you!" I hear one last time, and then I pass out of earshot.

* * *

When I reach the building where _it_ was supposed to happen, I'm breathless. Here, at least, it is more crowded, and I am less likely to be singled out by a beggar. The building itself, of course, is on the verge of collapse, as most here are due to the air raid. I shake off any bits of dust that I've collected on the way, and make my way to the entrance.

Well, entrance in that the gap where an arch has fallen is wide and stable enough for me to pass through into the inside - the _real_ entrance is buried under several layers of brick and concrete a hundred yards or so to the right. This respected hotel will have to scrape for the funds they will need to rebuild it - there's word of an infantry invasion at the borders, and so I doubt the necessary amount of money is going to be put towards this.

Inside, it is like the street but a smaller, denser version. The remains of potted plants crawl out from between lighting fixtures and broken furniture; a torn armchair is holding up part of the collapsed ceiling and I scrape my side along the chipped front desk as I squeeze through the 'entrance' to the stairwell. It's quiet over here, but if I listen carefully enough, I can hear a gramophone playing - 3 floors up, a couple of rooms away. My hands push away some luggage that's wedged between the walls so I can move through; there seems to have been an avalanche of suitcases from above, the rich having sent their possessions ahead of them but not having the chance to pick them up again once they made ground level. Maybe their possessions weren't worth saving after all... Without much difficulty, I traverse the stairs and climb up onto the floor above. It doesn't take long for me scramble to another part of the stairway, which starts about halfway off the ground, and slide onto to yet another part of the structure. The shock from the bombs has pulled apart most of the building but odd bits remain, leaving a scattered path connecting the floors.

The floorboards of the corridor I have crawled up onto are sloped down towards the stairwell and I stick close to the ground until I feel them level out.

When I bring myself to a standing position, I find the most spectacular view. The city is practically flattened, the roofs of buildings lying slumped onto roads and the entire skyline squished down to one or two layers of brick. Somewhere further out, smoke indicates that a fire is raging, and I know that not far beyond the inferno, troops are marching in to protect the people at the borders.

The radio broadcasts are crippled by the influx of news. We've finally been inflicted with the inner workings of war.

Music from the gramophone not far away trickles into the air, and my hair curls loosely around my face at the wind from behind. I run my fingers through it again before I tuck it behind my ears, and then swivel round to continue my mission. The room which sources the music is not far at all, and with tentative steps I make my way toward it. A pocket knife is snug in a hand behind my back, and I let the blade dig into my skin a time or two to check my alertness while I walk.

As I pass through the door to Nikolai Kazankov's hotel room, the music cuts off.

 _He knows I'm here._

Not in the mood to feign ignorance, I stride over to where the music _was_ coming from, and find my self at the door of the bathroom. The man, who first seemed to expect such an intrusion, looks at me confused.

"You shouldn't be in here." he says, not having noticed the knife in my hand. He thinks me a child. It is exactly why we are sent on these missions.

"Kazankov?" I ask to ensure I've got the right man, even though he matches the description I was given.

There is no answer but I can see a twitch of confirmation in his eye.

"I've come to collect your debt to Dimitri." I tell him.

"You are one of Dimitri's?"

He face is unbelieving.

I scowl to assert my position and he erupts in a brief but pitiful noise, part sob and part scoff. It's clear the man has been crying, the raw skin around his eyes melting in with the dust that has fallen from the breaking building.

I entertain the question of his sadness and cast a glance behind him, to where I'm not most surprised lie 2 bodies, of a woman and a small boy. The woman lies crushed under a fallen beam not far from bathtub, her son cradled in her arms.

"Can't you see that my family are dead?" Kazankov poses bleakly.

"You have a debt that needs to be paid." I reiterate, voice unwavering. The man doesn't seem convinced, and shakes his head.

"Nikolai!" I command, demanding his attention. "If not with the arms, then with your life."

I am not the tallest of girls, and am surprisingly small for my strength - I think this is why Kazankov, with dust covered suit and faint moustache, is looking at me with insincerity and scepticism. Madame Letova says my figure is an asset to me, if I know how to use it, but I'm starting to think being big and threatening would cut out a lot of talking time on missions like these.

"The goods, Kazankov." I remind the man when he provides no response.

"I haven't got the firearms here!" he spits at me, his voice laced with anger despite his sadness. "What kind of monster sends children out to terrorise his partners after an air raid?! Go home child. Leave a poor man to grieve."

Kazankov _was_ standing upright, but he is now looking puzzled as to how I have brought him to the floor. In one swift movement, I turn him on his stomach and dig my knee into his back. My knife finds its way down to his throat.

"Where are Dimitri's arms?" I say.

"My family is my life." he mutters under his breath. "My family is my life."

My knife pushes further into his neck and I feel his whole body convulse at its touch.

"Leave me alone!" Kazankov wails, and I think I've grown tired of this spiel. An arms and ammunitions trade supposedly happened a few days back, and neither party has left the city since. Dimitri's intelligence suggests that the goods are being held by Kazankov's associate, so that the pair of them can sell the weapons they bought to the government when they were needed. Obviously, that time might be sooner than first expected. In any case, the firearms are close, and Kazankov owes Dimitri a favour.

"I know they are nearby." I warn the man, who swallows hard.

"How many men are outside?" he asks tentatively, knowing he is testing his luck.

I go to answer him but stop to think about it. I hadn't really considered it in its entirety, but I have no back-up to help me here. Should I lie? Tell him there's a whole mob of men waiting outside? But then, what could men do that I can't? At least men - or boys - of my age?

"Why should there be men?" I hear myself saying.

I can almost feel his urge to scoff or laugh, and I can taste his forced suppression of this instinct.

"I am," I say slowly, pacing my voice despite my rising keenness to get out of the city. "Really most capable," I should really leave. "of," Something always follows the bombs. "holding my own." I say. My knife skitters down the man's back and drags at the flesh of his upper thigh, causing him to scream in agony. Passers-by outside don't notice; it is, but of course, just another casualty of the war, one of thousands and thousands tolling up across the country. Kazankov himself, however, seems to have gotten the gist of what I'm trying to say.

"It's easier to give them up then to die." I whisper. I know that the more I scare him, the more of a reward I will get.

"My family is gone." he says, squeezing out tears.

"Your family would want you stick to your loyalty like a gentleman." I scowl, perforating around his wound with the tip of my knife.

"What do you know of family?" he screeches. "There are no debts in family!"

One lunge with the knife and I think he's ready to tell me.

"Where are the weapons?" I say quietly, letting the following seconds play out in silence.

"The American." he says, exhausted. "Michael, the American has them."

Releasing Kazankov, I bring myself to my feet. I'm somewhat glad that I didn't have to do more than scrape him a little, though I'm a little stuck on his obsession with his family. What is it that people find so appealing about the connection between a relative? Eva has it too - she's completely consumed by it, even though it's been years since she last saw anyone remotely close to her by blood. I take one more look at the squirming man, then knock a somehow still upright vase over for good measure.

"God bless America." I say mockingly, and then I leave.

 _ **Sorry this was later than usual!  
No chapter next week unfortunately - I'm going to try and write a few chapters in advance so I won't have to rush so much. **_


End file.
